


Drinking Deep

by crystalsoulslayer



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: M/M, Vampires, dark!Doctor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 05:27:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystalsoulslayer/pseuds/crystalsoulslayer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Master has a little secret; he passes it on to the Doctor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drinking Deep

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr made me do it.

It had started at the Academy. 

The Master—little Koschei, then, tall, dark, slender Koschei—was desperate. It was hard enough to hide his… condition. The Time Lords did not treat vampirism kindly. Feeding was nearly impossible. 

Except during sex. 

And sex was hard to get away with, too; the Time Lords, always a dull, plodding people, disapproved of an act which their combined genetic engineering and cloning knowledge had rendered wholly unnecessary. But the unnecessary nature of sex only added to its splendor, its intimacy, the lack of any biological or hormonal drives only adding to the taboo. 

So when Koschei had found the Doctor—little Theta, tall, bright, slender Theta—he was elated. The sex was fantastic, their young, eager bodies splayed out in scarlet grass, riding and taking and giving and writhing and arching in such pleasant, lovely ways. And afterward, still glowing hot from orgasm, Koschei could lean in, press his lips to that soft, slim white neck, nibble lightly, and then— 

And Theta never knew. 

It was sheer coincidence that they became friends. A matter of convenience, at least for Koschei. At first. But when Theta left without him—well. That was less than ideal. 

Koschei had grown into the Master, and had grown a beard, mostly to help dissipate the rumors. Vampires didn’t tend to have beards. Things got messy very, very quickly. But the Master was neat, as a person. Very neat, very tidy. He kept himself clean, washed the blood daily from the well-trimmed hairs, neutralized the proteins with a cleansing solution so it wouldn’t show up on scans. He even carried a little handkerchief, the better to mop up the excess with. He dabbed it gently at the corners of his mouth, like a civilized cannibal after a satisfying feast. 

When he left Gallifrey, he’d gone on a feeding spree. On the first planet the ravenous Master visited, thirty-seven people had been drained of their blood in less than two hours. It was a quality-quantity thing; he’d been spoiled by all that Time Lord blood, so rich and flavorful, so bold, so… well, there wasn’t a word in English for the taste. 

And then he’d gone looking for Theta. 

By that point, Theta had grown, too, into a man, an influential, rather gorgeous man. The Master delighted in their conflict, in toying with the tiny, _delicious_ humans, in the swordfights, the chases. But most of all, he delighted in the feast. One hand on the Doctor’s cock, working it furiously, one hand in his hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat, lips and teeth and tongue working on the skin over his gently pulsing carotid artery, until— 

And the Doctor never knew. 

He didn’t know, in fact, until the Valiant, when the Master de-aged him, tied him down, and filmed it, with a load of gratuitous close-ups of the Master’s inch-long, razor-sharp, needle-pointed fangs sinking into that gorgeous stubbled neck, just as the Master’s _nine_ -inch-long, rock-hard, blunt cock sank into that gloriously tight arse. 

The Doctor cried beautifully. 

“How long?” he’d asked, tears streaming down his face, hands caressing that _spot_ , the Master’s single favorite place in the universe, the tender little flat of skin that throbbed faintly whenever he stood still. “How long have you been like this?” 

“Since the Academy.” 

And the Doctor, bless him, had cried _harder,_ curled up and sobbed. It wasn’t until the Master took pity on him and sedated him with another bite that the Doctor explained. The sentimental fool was crying because he felt _sorry_ for the Master, pitied him, having to hide such a horrible secret. 

The Master had torn open his own wrist with his teeth.

The Doctor had not wanted to drink. 

It had turned out to be a singularly excellent decision. The Master could control him so effortlessly, age and starve him if he were bad, de-age and feed him if he were good. And the Doctor hated it, cried every time, apologized endlessly to whoever the Master brought to feed him. The Master’s hearts swelled with pride every time the Doctor, eyes already brimming with tears, sunk his own fangs into another perfect, pristine neck. 

The Master liked to watch. And he especially liked it when the Doctor begged, so hungry he no longer cared that it was wrong. The Master wanted to teach him to enjoy other things that were wrong. 

Once,  just to see if he could, the Master starved the Doctor for _weeks_ , watching him shrivel, his cheeks hollow, his pupils dilate. The longer he went without feeding, the more deathly he looked, until the Master had to keep him hidden from Lucy because he _frightened_ her so. Then, finally, the Master released a young woman into the starving Doctor’s care. 

He fought it, at first, knowing what would happen. But, inevitably, he lunged forward, snapping her neck with the force of his bite, tearing her throat out in his starvation. He didn’t talk much after that. 

The Master’s gift lasted even through regenerations. The Doctor was good about not feeding on his companions.

Usually. 

But they were so often tired after a day of sprinting through corridors that they didn’t _notice_ a bit of extra fatigue, and in the timeless TARDIS, they had no sense of how much longer they slept, and in their adoration of him, they were so _willing_ to yield their pliant bodies to him, and it was just so _easy_. It was so, _so_ easy, _so simple_. And he hated himself, but he had to, _had to eat_ , and… in a way, every bite reminded him of home, reminded him of all he’d lost, reminded him of the red grass and the long white limbs tangled upon it. 

He got testy when he couldn’t feed so easily. Restless, agitated, angry, vicious. Stalking prey was not something he enjoyed. 

Usually. 

Loneliness was not the Doctor’s only enemy; the difficulty of finding prey, the hazards of it, the endless self-torture—they gnawed at him as surely as the Time War and the deaths of every friend he’d ever had. It was only fair, really, that after all the biting he’d had to do, he get chewed at in return. His companions kept him sane, kept him healthy. 

He was _ever_ so lost without them.


End file.
